


He Would Never Cry

by AurorFelicis3755



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-10 02:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2007603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurorFelicis3755/pseuds/AurorFelicis3755
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angsty as hell. John Watson struggles to deal with life after Sherlock's loss in The Reichenbach Fall. His mind isn't functioning properly and he is finding it difficult to carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Job

**Author's Note:**

> Unsure how far I'm going to take this - started off as late night ramble but developed and my friends liked it, so I'm putting it here. Thank you for taking the time to look! Mega thanks also to my friends who admin the Facebook page "Moriarty Lives" with me for their help and support with this.

He stopped being  Dr  John Watson, after the funeral . He couldn't return home - 221B wasn't his home without that man, his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. London stifled him. He stayed with Harry in the country. Harry stifled him. People came and went, he got a job, he went to the shops, he drank.  Lestrade  called now and then, with little to say. He  was alone, and he liked his isolation. He would never cry.

 

With a signature and date, he filled in the last piece of paperwork for the day. The papers seemed to stretch  like mountains around him. Towering over him. Towers. Rooftops. A coat caught in the sudden wind. Dark shapes fell from the stacks of paper he was enclosed in, flying in all directions. He couldn't catch them all, he couldn’t, he wasn't enough for these mini geniuses... 

A sudden jolt from his lungs made movement impossible but he was shaking and he couldn't look at these towers anymore and his eyes flashed gold in the fading sun and there was shredded bricks and sweat and blood on the floor and he had torn down the towers with his hands; but the blood remained, inde lible.

A soft,  but  certain tap was the first sound he'd heard over his screaming thoughts. A clipboard came in, closely followed by a pinstriped, heeled slice of woman. Her make-up said  _I'm approachable, talk to me about your problems_.  Her face did not.

"Watson. Explain." Who was she talking to? It couldn't be him - he had no name. Rats don't have names.  He  realised  he was on his knees. His tongue propelled forward in his mouth of its own vol ition, and he thought his insides would be showered all over The Clipboard's shoes - for a fraction of a second. He swallowed his pain and it fell back to the depths of his stomach. He got to his feet and straightened his clothes.

" Mrs Goldwire , I- " He sniffed and lifted his eyes. He hated looking up.

"I'm sorry  Dr  Watson, I really am," she said, with no hint of remorse. "But we cannot keep having these... incidents. Not in the surgery. We need you to be at your mental peak - understand? No slacking! We can't be seen to employ... well, we need to have reliable staff here. You don't seem quite-" she broke off, straightening her skirt and glancing around the office "fit the bill." She was avoiding his  eyes, examining the venetian blinds behind his head. This was fine as he was avoiding her eyes too. 

"I'll pack my things." The monotone phrase had been used before. About a year ago. 11 months, 2 weeks and 6 days. 57 texts. He hated numbers.

 

Rattling skulls made him nauseous on the tube home. Other people spoiled his thoughts. He understood  now why Sherlock always isolated himself as he thought.  The winding tunnels soothed his brain as the train swept through station after station towards an empty house that was  his now. He closed his eyes and listened to the blood circulating his brain. He sunk into the rare moment of calm, wrapping the quiet around his mind like a blanket. A shock blanket - bright orange. Drifting to another time, he allowed himself a blissful journey through his most sacred memories. 

_ He's smiling. He's actually smiling! I just shot a serial killer! But his genuine amusement is infectious... I can't control my laughter as  he twirls through the  crime scene in that bright orange sheet - ri diculous man. He's radiant! His smile is making it all okay. Maybe I'm in shock too.  _

_ Lestrade  wants a word. I hope he doesn't take him to the station. Sherlock seems to be the only thing stopping me going mad over the fact that  I just  killed  a man.  Lestrade  stumbles off and we leave the area.  I have to get away from here, this scene. Far away. But I have to stay with him... I can't explain it, yet. But he's magnetic, electric, and so much more. _

_ I see him before Sherlock does : his "arch-enemy". My heart rate increases tenfold as I point him out to Sherlock, concealing my panic in whispered tones. Panic? I've been in wa rzones, but now I get flustered over a middle aged man with an umbrella. Sherlock stares at him in... frustration? His brow furrows and  I try to read him. I must look odd standing beside him, staring at his features. That situation at Angelo's... Will everyone think I'm his date? Does everyone? Standing here, his tall figure  emphasised  in that long coat, my limp cured, at god knows what o'clock, do I actually mind? _

Blood was racing through his mind now. The sound had become overwhelming. S ynapses and neurons expanded inside his head until he thought his skull would burst, exploding behind his eyes and shooting darts from all sides. A fierce fight was taking place in his brain and his consciousness was a civil ian  casualty.

He got off the train at the next stop and walked the remaining distance to his flat. He can't bear taxis anymore.


	2. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John continues to struggle with life. And please trust that I am going somewhere with this plot and I do have a plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is too short, I know, I'm terrible. Sorry. I will write more when I'm not too busy reading other people's writing and such.

He shut the door solidly against the autumn winds and collapsed back onto it, relieved. Heavy breaths escaped his lungs although he hadn't been walking faster than usual . His trip to the shop on his way  home  had been more trouble than he had expected -  t his was the calm, sensible  story he was broadcasting through his mind, anyway. The incident was over, the damage was paid for, and he could forget about it now.  He ached all over, but it was 6.12pm. Not time for bed yet.

He put the kettle on, trying to clear his head . The steam rising from the spout  fogged his mind - but for less than a minute. Agonisingly, the boiling truth of his memories poured over his rational thought: the fall, the fall,  the _fall_ , he's gone. This truth has been melting him for months. Slowly, it has eroded him into a rugged cave where a cliff once stood proud. It burned.

Tea made, he shuffled through to the living room and put on the telly. News, football, quiz show, cartoons. Nothing of interest. Leaving the news on, his mind slid into the past without his conscious consent. 

_ Sherlock is  bored. He's jumping about on the furniture and there are body parts on the table. I think that’s a human gallbladder... but that's life, with Sherlock.  He always seems bored. In need of a new adventure. I think we're similar, in that way - life with the world's only consulting detective is a new adventure, for me. He's standing on the sofa now, exclaiming his knowledge of different types of wool. I'm in my chair reading the paper,  pretending not to listen  - don't want  to inflate his ego. B ut honestly,  it's fascinating. His enthusiasm enraptures me. Oh, look at this. I'm not listening and  he needs an audience, so he's trying to grab  his  skull from the shelf! That thing. I thought Mrs Hudson got rid of it  anyw - _

_ Sherlock slips reaching for the skull. Stretching out wildly his elongated limbs scramble for something to save him but John isn't there he's leapt up but he's not quick enough and Sherlock falls he falls and John can't save him and there's the moist heat of blood on his hands on his chest in his heart. _

"SHERLOCK!"  His heart rebounded off his ribs and sl ammed backwards into his throat and the cry left his heart and exploded in the air. Screwing up his eyes he crashed his palm into his forehead again and again, he could hit these th oughts from his head, he could, he  _ must _ .

After 2 minutes and 51 seconds, he dissolved into misery.

The smashed mug pieces on the neat woven rug created  a cruel but convenient metaphor for his mind, he thought:  in pieces, destroyed, irreparable. He sighed  at his tea-soaked hands and body. Unsure when he'd fallen  to the floor, he got up stiffly and cleared up the mess.

Changed and dry, he made himself another cup of tea . He closed his eyes to find the realisation that he was unemployed  burned  under his eyelids. This had never been much of an issue when- in the past. There had always been rewards for solved cases and Mrs Hudson was very flexible with rent and bills if she knew they were hard up.  But now... things were different.   



End file.
